Reflections on 9/11

9/11 tribute
Photo by Kim Carpenter

Thirteen years ago, I was sitting in front of our thick computer playing a spelling game. I still remember the bright yellow on the screen.

I was 12 years old, in my last full year as a homeschooler, and it’s my only homeschooling memory I can pin down to a specific day.

My mom interrupted my game to tell me about two planes crashing into two towers in New York City.

That’s where I was when I found out about the 9/11 terrorist attacks: The first event to imbed itself in the minds of an entire generation. My generation.

At that age, I was in the habit of acquiring journals, writing a few pages in them, and then abandoning them. That night, I opened my current diary  one of those pretty ones with a lock and key  and wrote these words:

Something very awful happened today. Terrorists hijacked four passenger planes  gigantic ones. Two of them flew right into and destroyed the two buildings of the World Trade Center. … I’m scared that this might be the beginning of World War III!

All of us who were old enough to remember, old enough to understand, were affected by that day, weren’t we?

Thirteen years later, I have friends I laugh with and watch movies with who were no more than four years old when those planes did their damage. I marvel at how much can fit into the ten years between us, how events that I can never forget are events that they can never remember.

9/11 pulled me of my own little world and gave me a glimpse of a bigger one, of hurts beyond my own that became my own. This shouldn’t be a few-and-far-between occurrence. When pictures of brokenness creep into the corners of my vision, I want to open the curtains and look into the hurting faces until I can’t ignore them, until I have to do something about the pain because I’m hurting too.

May we weep with those who weep.

The Art of Turkeys

Wild TurkeysI see art in the turkeys who come to our yard daily. I see beauty and wonder as they drink from the old, metal bucket we keep filled with water, tilting their heads back once they’ve filled their mouths with a swallow so that the liquid can go down and quench and fill. I am delighted to watch them peck and scratch at the dirt, and, sometimes, sit in it.

They haven’t brought their babies here to drink for more than two years now. I wish they would, but I’m content just to see them live and move and have their being right outside our kitchen window.

Turkeys aren’t known for their beauty. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to them. Cats and dogs, dolphins and horses have many admirers. But turkeys, with their tiny pink heads, their thin legs, and their sleek, dark bodies, aren’t the recipients of as much love. But still they go about their lives, unconcerned with the world that only notices them for their meat.

I notice them, these wild friends of mine, and I never tire of watching them walk, run, sit, drink, explore, and fly into the tall pines at twilight to sleep in safety.

Sometimes I feebly gobble to them from above or across, and sometimes they reply. But more often I just watch them, like I’m doing right now, not wanting to alarm them and thus hasten their departure.

I watch this corner of the turkeys’ world, knowing that when I’m no longer living here, my heart will still thrill at the sound of their gobbling, one of my favorite sounds in the world.